


In Her Image

by The_Watched_Pot



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale has TWO eyes, Crowley loves art, Gen, God has a weird sense of humour, Or maybe Seraphim, Portraits, Principality pride, Self-Esteem Issues, You’re thinking of Thrones, archangels and Archangels - totally not confusing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Watched_Pot/pseuds/The_Watched_Pot
Summary: Every now and then, Aziraphale has to appear to mortals in his true angelic form. Human brains are not really up to the experience and come away with some very odd descriptions...





	In Her Image

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Screaming_Lord_Byron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Screaming_Lord_Byron/gifts).

Humans see faces in things. _Pareidolia_, it's called. It's one of those intriguing quirks of Her Creation that evolutionists have carefully and seriously studied, trying to find a rational cause. Privately, Aziraphale thinks it's another of Her 'little jokes', like dinosaurs, and the appendix, and Pi.

  
He can't blame them, poor dears. It's how they're made. But it does lead to some embarrassing misinterpretations of reality. Most of the time, he's been able to work with his assigned corporation: a perfectly satisfactory and sturdy vessel, which he's maintained with the same fastidious care as Crowley gives his Bentley. But every now and then through history's long march, he's been required to Appear Unto a human in a more commanding presence than can be expected from five foot seven of smiling, slightly portly, middle-aged bookseller.

  
On those occasions, he manifests in his Created form, all the better to inspire awe and reverence, and

  
Every.  
Single.  
Time.

  
the human goes away with a mental image that suggests a close relationship with psychoactive plantlife. It's really quite vexing.

*

  
Recently, on the bus, Aziraphale sat a few rows behind two young women hunched conspiratorially over a mobile telephone, skimming through seemingly endless pictures of golden sand and cerulean skies. He certainly wasn't eavesdropping, but their voices weren't hushed, and while he meandered through the Telegraph's latest effort at a cryptic crossword, the conversation had caught his attention.

  
"Oh god, look at the state of me. You can delete that one right now."

  
"It's not that bad -- don't make me delete it. I hardly got any of you the whole week, and I think you look _lovely_."

  
"Bollocks. I'm cursed. You've got one of those faces where you can't take a bad picture, and there's never one of me where I haven't got my eyes shut, or a double chin, or I look three sheets to the wind."

  
The angel listened sympathetically and, unable to help himself, nudged a small miracle forward a few seats. There would be at least one picture where the light fell just so. Where the moment had been right. A confluence of perfect circumstances. It was a small thing, but perhaps it would matter to the woman, and that happiness would ripple outwards in small ways.

*

  
He doesn't mention it to Crowley. His 'unscheduled' miracles are spontaneous, and mostly minor enough to escape Heaven's notice, and he prefers to keep it that way. The demon has suggested ways to reach further with his good deeds, but imploding a street mime seems somewhat excessive, in spite of the warm feeling of wellbeing it might spread. Besides, it might open up that whole uncomfortable conversation about self-image again, and Aziraphale would rather avoid it.

  
Between God and humanity stands the hierarchy of angels. Nine tiers, each taking some aspect of the Almighty, from the First - the Seraphim, who most resemble Her, and upon whom no human could look without their wits deserting them, down to the Ninth: Guardians -- angels constructed in the likeness of humans, made to live amongst them and relay their doings back Upstairs to the archangels.

  
_Celestial Admin_, Crowley calls them.

  
Aziraphale is of the Seventh Tier, although he's far too well-mannered to bring this up in Gabriel's company. Picture an ethereal entity who takes the form of mankind: arms and legs and torso and face, painted in living light and benevolent of visage, crowned in white flames. If you squinted, you might recognise the quirk of lips, the luminous blueness of wide, reverent eyes. A gesture, a tilt of the head or wriggle of the shoulders Crowley would certainly find familiar.

  
There are arcs of radiance -- Aziraphale has never Appeared Unto a meteorologist, or the word 'parhelion' might have found its way into the Principality's description. Instead, the Visited use what words they can.

  
Halo. Ring. Wheel.

  
_Wheel_. Bloody Ezekiel.

  
Of course there are wings, although just one pair for this lowly Principality. In their smaller, mundane form, the feathers are white; a dove's wings, a swan's. _Fully_ manifest, their surfaces are fractal, their beat absorbing sound and light. They should -- if physics had its way -- be black, but physics too, is subject to Her whim, and Angelic Radiance shines from them like a clear and perfect Eden sunrise.

  
The human mind is insufficient to handle the paradox, and seizes on the Earthly light that rushes in to fill their passing in afterimages that are dazzling, printing the mortal retina with four -- six -- eight... a multitude of wings, enough wings for a host of Seraphim.

  
Around the angel, there are stars. They are a cosmic birthmark, constellations in blue, white, gold, some suspended like a jewelled aura, some printed on lambent skin.  
'Eyes,' say the Visited, because stars belong far away, in the sky, and these are bright sentinels, frighteningly near and vivid. And once they see eyes, they see faces. That little joke of Hers.

  
It would be something dangerously close to vanity to wish for a single, accurate depiction. He and Crowley have visited galleries together, and there are paintings of angels. Sculptures of angels, including that not-quite-scandalous piece of -- of _symplegma_ the demon has in his flat. They are invariably depicted with two wings, two eyes, often robed and nearly always haloed, and Crowley seems to enjoy them. Teases him, just a little, as if he'd posed for every single one.

  
Aziraphale indulges him, mostly because it's Crowley, and teasing is a way he shows his affection, like a cat that bites but never breaks the skin. Also because he'd rather claim them than admit that humans have never managed to describe his true form in a way that doesn't sound like something from the nightmares of Hieronymous Bosch.

  
But he thinks about the bus. The two young women, sharing their memories, and one lamenting that she had almost no pictures of the other, keepsakes of her friend, of whom she was so very fond.

  
Some time soon, when he can muster the nerve, Aziraphale will allow Crowley to see him in his Created form -- albeit through sunglasses, darkly -- and let him decide for himself if it's an image worth saving.

**Author's Note:**

> Written because the internet is awash with pictures of Aziraphale’s ‘true form’ being either a many-eyed blue Pokemon thing, an exploding barn owl with a sword, or having eyes everywhere there’s room to draw them.
> 
> Everyone’s entitled to their headcanon. This is mine... it refers to Aziraphale as portrayed by @Mr_AZ_Fell on Twitter, inspired by a very interesting conversation with that individual.
> 
> Things: Ezekiel’s vision in the Bible has a lot to answer for. He sees some sort of weird flying platform accompanied by wheels nesting one inside the other and covered with eyes (Thrones), ‘living beings’ with the faces of men, bulls, eagles and lions (Cherubim, I think), and... same vision? I can’t remember...
> 
> ...anyway, Seraphim are the ones with six wings.
> 
> So I’ve tried to rationalise all of that into one fic that’s also a little about how you see yourself, and how images of you don’t always tell the truth of who you are.
> 
> Oh, and symplegma /used/ to mean depictions of combat and/or eroticism. Now it tends to be used for the latter, but Aziraphale’s been around for a while and uses it in its original sense.
> 
> Archangels form the eighth tier of the hierarchy, and angels the ninth (including Guardian angels). Aziraphale outranks Gabriel. Stick that in your cashmere tracksuit.
> 
> (note - this was written /before/ Neil clarified that he and Terry decided that archangels per Pseudo-Dionysius were different from Archangels with a capital A). Don’t @ me.)
> 
> You may now return to your personal headcanon and continue to make buying glasses hell for our favourite angel :)


End file.
